


Follow-Up Question

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001)
Genre: Epilogue, Gen, Post-expedition, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:38:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: Just tying up some loose ends, post-expedition.  Milo comes back up for a quick visit.





	

“Darned glad to have you back on dry land, son!”

Mr. Whitmore met him in the foyer, armed with his entirely superfluous cane and grinning hugely beneath his moustache. Milo took his offered hand and shook it eagerly, even pulling the old man into a quick hug. Mr. Whitmore returned it, squeezing for a few seconds before patting his back. When they parted, Mr. Whitmore beamed and kept a hand on Milo’s shoulder.

“Glad to see you, too, Mr. Whitmore! It’s been a while!”

“To say the least. Adjusting to the sunshine all right?”

“Well, the yellowness takes some getting used to, but when you really think about it one constantly-combusting nuclear inferno hovering in the sky and emitting light radiation is actually pretty much like almost any other.”

Mr. Whitmore tilted his head and smiled, only to perk up at the noise of some expectant clatter from the living room. “Fair enough! Listen, after supper, come along with me and fill me in on a few details, would you? I have some questions left and I can’t really ask them of the crew. Rather sensitive stuff, you get the idea.”

Milo gave him a slightly-terrified look as the old man led him along towards the living room. “Okay. Sure!”

“Fantastic. Now come on in! Plenty of familiar faces here, and I believe Sweet just poured me something medicinal.”

“Medicinal? Are you sick?”

“Oh, no, never in life. But five years change things, you know, and thank God for upstanding medical men like the good doctor. I thought I’d never find someone decently loose with a prescription pad.”

* * *

By the time Milo came to understand the severe gravity of the Prohibition ban he was good and drunk. Dessert had long since been inhaled but since the conversation showed no end in sight, Mr. Whitmore made the excuse of a quick smoke and summoned Milo to his side.

They stepped into Mr. Whitmore’s private study. It was much the same as Milo remembered, although there was no fire in the fireplace. The room was lit by the eerie blue glow of the coelacanth tank and Milo watched a little dizzily as the hoary fishes moved slowly across the glass like the last totemic fragments of some ancient subaquatic dream.

“Good to see you again, son,” Mr. Whitmore said again. Dr. Sweet’s pen hadn’t been able to keep up with the ailments of his patient, but even so Mr. Whitmore seemed much more steady and clear-headed than Milo felt. He settled into a chair at the desk and waved Milo to the other. “I have just one little question to ask you. The crew couldn’t give me a lot of insight on the matter, but I was thinking you–”

“I’m not married to her,” Milo blurted.

Mr. Whitmore raised his eyebrows.

“I didn’t marry Kida,” Milo said. “I’m her advisor and Education Minister, but I don’t really – I mean I’m not sure that anything will come of that. I don’t think it can, since she’s royal and also my elder by about 83 centuries. Not that I guess that really matters, since eventually I’ll probably live to be at least 6,700 years old, even accounting for my relatively late start with the crystals, but all the same I must seem like an infant to her.”

“I’m sure,” Mr. Whitmore said slowly.

“Right, and also I just don’t think marriage is on her mind,” Milo added. “I can be a help as an advisor but it’s not like we have a massive need for diplomats, which is kind of the only function of a prince, anyway. We’re an isolationist society, to say the very least, so I can’t see her wanting me in that political capacity. O-or in the nuptial one.”

“Mm.”

Milo closed his mouth with a click. He opened it again. “So that’s the situation. In case you were wondering. Aubrey was kind of wiggling her eyebrows at me about it so I thought I’d just clear things up.”

Mr. Whitmore sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers. He nodded to himself once or twice.

“Thank you for the insight, Milo,” he said. “Now, my question…”

Milo blanched.

Mr. Whitmore grinned. “I’m not a grandmother, son. I don’t tend to care much about marital prospects. Let me know when you have a kid and I’ll be as filled in as I want to be.”

“Yeahp,” Milo choked. “Your… your question, then?”

“Did you really sink the sub after only five hours?” Mr. Whitmore asked. He smiled sweetly. “Oh, I don’t mean you personally. I think it might’ve been Rourke’s fault, or possibly Helga’s, but of course I couldn’t ask them. Although maybe it wasn’t anyone fault; I really don’t know! From all accounts I think you were somewhere near the bridge at the time, weren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Milo wheezed.

“Good. Aubrey was able to get me as far as the boilers, but I can’t imagine what shot through the bulkheads. I thought maybe you would have some sense of what went on.”

“Oh,” Milo said.

“I’m not angry, obviously. I’d just like to know. When a six million dollar submarine goes down after five hours and I don’t get even a hint of what technically caused it… well, it’s a blow to my professional pride, if you follow.”

“Right.”

“So tell me everything. It might help with the next one.”

“The next–!!”

Mr. Whitmore smiled and shrugged.

Milo got it together. “The Leviathan was equipped with an Atlantean war laser. It’s an energy beam, similar to the crystals, but concentrated via prism. King Kashekim had a whole arsenal of the things but most of have been destroyed.”

Mr. Whitmore squinted a little and leaned back, pondering the ceiling. “Mmm. I suppose that makes sense. I thought my scientists were pretty careful, but I guess I couldn’t have told them that we needed the submarine to withstand Greek fire, could we?”

“Probably not.”

“No excuse for being ill-prepared, though. That’s egg on my face. I’ll see about reinforcing that. Sooner some crazy German’s going to get the idea in his head to concentrate some sort of energy beam and then where will we be? No, thank you.”

“I should also mention that we took a few crushing wounds from the claws. I think that helped weaken things enough that some of the atmospheric pressure started to get through. Even if that didn’t cause the sinking, it didn’t help.”

“Huh,” Mr. Whitmore said. After a moment he shrugged. “Well, that’s science for you! I’m just glad I’ve got something to take back to the team. Thank you, Milo, that’s helpful stuff.”

“Happy to help, of course. But, uh… can we wind it back? I don’t think I got it the first time: did you say six _million_ dollars?”

Mr. Whitmore gave him a look of mocking sternness. “Bets are sacred things, Milo. Who raised you? I would’ve thought you’d know that.”

“Just the submarine? The submarine alone, I mean, never mind provisions and wages and stuff.”

“Yes.”

“You built my grandpa a six million dollar sub?”

Mr. Whitmore went still and then started squirming in his seat. “Er… They call it ‘bankrolling,’ son, not ‘bankflopping.’ Submarines are expensive things. It’s the nature of the business. If you’ve absolutely got to cut expenses, you don’t cut expenses on the submarine.”

Milo peered at him. “Of course…”

“And anyway, having spent six million dollars on it, I hope you understand my considerable interest in the cause of sinking.”

Milo sat back and shook his head a little. “But six million dollars! And we were only in it for five hours!”

“Now you’re catching on. But if it’s any comfort, it’s not the first time this has happened, although I guess in fairness it is a few orders of magnitude off.”

“What?”

“Your family doesn’t jive well with technology.” Mr. Whitmore shrugged. “I don’t think the ink had dried on the receipt for my first car when your grandfather had nearly killed himself in it. Totalled the thing right before my eyes.”

Milo blinked.

“ _Internal_ combustion,” Mr. Whitmore said. He gestured with his hands, pointing the tips of one set of fingers into a cup made by the other. “It’s meant to remain inside. I tried to explain that. I still don’t think he ever really got the concept.”

Six million dollars, Milo thought. Just on the sub! When Mr. Whitmore settled a bet… well, good gravy.

“Maybe we should get back to the party,” Milo offered.

“Sound suggestion,” Mr. Whitmore said. He pulled a pen and notepad out of his pocket. “You go ahead and I’ll be right behind you. I’m just going to make some quick notes.”

Milo left Mr. Whitmore scribbling in his little notebook. As he walked towards the living room, following the noise of the party, Milo felt suddenly, awfully sober.

Maybe Sweet would prescribe something for him. It was worth the asking.

**Author's Note:**

> Six million 1914 dollars would be about 189 million dollars today, give or take a few hundred thousand. A nuclear sub is going to set you back two billions today and the Phoenix 1000 is 80 mil, but hey… this was a research vessel. We’re not here to fuck around.


End file.
